


Papa Gene's Blues

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9685904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'could i request a super fluffy mike nesmith where he sings Papa Genes Blues to the reader to tell her that he loves her for the first time!! thank you!!'Fluffy Mike you say?!





	

“(Y/N), can I talk to you, for-”

“Sorry, Mike, (Y/N)’s busy right now!” Peter hollers back, and you giggle. You’re not what you would traditionally call busy – but the springs in these hotel beds are _insane_ , and like the sane, sensible adults you, Davy and Peter are, you’re testing them. Not like that. By jumping. You take aim and leap towards the bed Peter is currently bouncing on, and he catches you, giggling. He’s more than a little high – you’re not. You’re just a child at heart, you suppose.

“It’s _important_ ,” Mike says peevishly, sticking his head around the door, and you sigh. Someone who is not a child at heart – Robert Michael Nesmith – and he’s looking quite displeased right now. “Please?”

“Alright, _Dad_ ,” you mumble, and Davy begins to giggle hysterically as you climb down off the bed. You aren’t sure what you’ve done, but Mike seems… well. Mike. Very Mike. He’s always very Mike, you think, a little wistfully.

“I got something I need you to listen to-” he begins as you walk towards the practice room, and you nod. Sometimes he or Peter will summon you to listen to something they’ve come up with – often it’s just a line or a riff they want to bounce off you, but you’re pleased that the two of them trust your ear. “It ain’t long.”

“Heard that one before. Mike, man, gotta borrow ya…” Micky has launched from the kitchen mid-flow before either of you are even aware he is there, and you pause, staring wide-eyed. “Sorry. Mike. Need you for ten minutes.” Mike folds his arms. “Sorry, man! Five mins, ten tops.”

“Can you wait in there?” He looks at you, brown eyes – full of something… and then as he follows Micky you sigh and open the door gently, stepping around the instruments that have been left out by a disinterested Davy or Micky. You reach out and pluck the string of the ukulele.

When Peter had asked you to meet his friends, you hadn’t even really known who the polite, flirtatious hippie with the bowl cut was; now, you were in their inner circle, and it was… frankly, strange.

You pluck the next string.

Mike had been polite, but a little cold, and apparently the tiny part of your brain that likes Byronic heroes had started screaming; it pains you to admit, but you’re a little bit heart-eyes for the tall, dark-haired Texan. He’s got something very alluring about him… maybe it’s the sideburns. You’re not sure.  Now, you’re sort of living every teenage girl’s dream – getting to moon over a member of the Monkees up close.

You pluck the next string, and it plays a sour note. Ugh. How _cliché_.

Really, though, you barely know the man – every time you talk it feels… stilted. You try, but he sort of has this habit of staring, or making you feel stupid with every word that comes from your mouth. You and Davy are good buddies, and Peter is your best friend – hell, even Micky likes to kid around. But Mike’s words are solemn or sarcastic, probability of the two increasing in that order, and your crush is likely to remain ever thus – a crush, unrequited. It doesn’t exactly break your heart…

You pluck another string at random.

…but you wouldn’t mind seeing another side to the man.

Perhaps just to indicate he _has_ another side.

“(Y/N)?”

You glance up, and Mike’s stood there – you recoil from the ukulele, in case you were doing something he wouldn’t approve of, and he nods.

“You… don’t play, do ya?”

“No,” you say, quietly. You have no wish to embarrass yourself in front of him. “So… what do you want me to listen to?”

He reaches out and takes hold of your arms, before gently propelling you backwards into a seat – he won’t look you in the eye, and you look around.

“It’s a song I wrote,” he says, stepping back and grabbing a stool – he places it in front of you, and then glances around. “‘scuse me, ma’am, I gotta get my guitar.” You nod, and he paces across the room.

“An entire song?”

You wonder sometimes if Mike is happy as a member of the Monkees – you wonder about Peter as well. Davy as an actor seems happy enough, and Micky is straddling the line between music and acting with about as much aplomb as Micky straddles anything, but as Mike slings the strap over his shoulder, you think you know how much he wishes for creative freedom.

That’s a bit ‘other-side’, you suppose.

“I haven’t come up with a title, but I’m sure I can make up somethin’,” he says dryly, and you nod politely, smiling. “I just… I wrote this for someone. Tell me what y’all think, okay?”

“Sure, Mike,” you smile, and he clears his throat.

_No heartaches felt no longer lonely, nights of waiting finally won me, happiness that’s all rolled up in you…_

It’s a little clunky – quite fast, although you imagine with practise and the guys who do their music working on it, it’ll sound awesome.

_And now with you as inspiration, I look toward a destination, sunny bright that once before was blue._

He is still looking down towards his fingers on the strings, and you tilt your head. He’s so attractive, you think to yourself, not for the first time, and look at the way the light from the windows – it’s sunny in California, what a surprise – shoots his dark hair through with almost blue highlights.

_I have no more than I did before, but now, I’ve got all that I need…_

His fingers are so rough; you watch as he plucks at the strings, no plectrum in his hands. You want – not to be touched by him, although the thought elicits a certain thrill – but to reach out and hold them – each digit intertwined with yours.

_‘Cause I love you and I know you love me._

He looks up, and those dark eyes are lit up amber from the sunlight. You’re aware that your breathing stops for a moment, but suddenly you don’t have the self-interest in manually resuming.

Whoever the hell is the lucky girl this is about?!

_So take my hand…_

It’s almost as if he’s read your mind.

… _I’ll start my journey, free from all the helpless worry that besets a man when he’s alone…_

You can’t picture Mike ever being worried. He’s the ‘dad friend’, and you know it. He’s always been sort of grown-up in some indefinable way, a trait that Peter as the oldest lacks – you’re all adults, but there’s something coldly mature about him.

_…for strength is mine when we’re together, and with you I know I’ll never have to pass the high road for the low…_

You watch him carefully as he’s lost in the music, eyes back on his fingers and where each of them lands.

_I have no more than I did before…_

Who is this for?

_But now I’ve got all that I need._

You feel like you could bite your lip so hard it’d bleed.

_‘Cause I love you_ , _and I know-_

“I have to be…” you pause, and stand up suddenly. “…somewhere else.”

“Huh?” he says, looking up at you, and you turn around, walking straight out.

Why do your eyes _sting_? Why do you have a lump in your throat, for God’s sake?! You’re an enlightened twentieth-century woman, you don’t get petty and jealous just because a guy you like – barely even have a crush on – has written a song for some other woman! You stop outside the door, and take a deep breath. You could walk back in. Make a proper excuse.

“ _(Y/N)?_ ”

You hear his voice, and suddenly remember that the bed upstairs really does need to be tested – not like that! You march forward. Maybe you’ll catch him later and explain.

* * *

“Woman’s work anyhow.”

You grab a plate and aim it, Frisbee-like, at Davy’s head, and he sticks his tongue out.

“Only joking! I’ll dry, luv, but I can’t touch wet food.” He gags theatrically, and you roll your eyes. “Popping out for a ciggie with Peter, luv.” You nod, and grab the dishcloth. “By the way, was Mike’s song good?”

You nearly throw the plate, and Davy stares.

“Sorry! Uh… yeah. It was okay. Love to hear it with some work on it,” you lie, and he nods slowly. “Definitely a good one.” You beam until he backs out, eyes fixed on you in alarm. _What is wrong with you? Calm down, woman!_ You sigh, and close your eyes, tuning out. You can hear Davy and Peter talking in the yard a storey below you – you can hear birds tweeting in the trees outside the house – you can hear-

“ _-be damned, Mick, but she stormed out_.”

“ _What did you say, Mikey-boy?_ ”

Micky and Mike are – by the sound of it, they’re in the den that the kitchen is next to, window next to yours open. You put the plate down gently, and listen in.

“ _I said it was for someone._ ”

“ _Mike…_ ”

You hold your breath. You might be about to find out who. Not that you care, you hastily remind yourself.

“ _…you didn’t, you know, **say** -_”

“ _You can’t just tell a girl you wrote her a song, Micky. You gotta be subtle._ ”

“ _Subtle is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of you, Mike. ‘China shop’ is, though. Well, actually, it’s fourth and fifth. Preceded by ‘bull’, ‘in’ and ‘a’._ ”

“ _Shut your goddamn face, Micky. I got Southern charm._ ”

You realise you’re holding your breath, and exhale. Did Mike… just say that? Had you heard/interpreted that correctly?

“ _Well, your redneck ways did not **work** , Mike. (Y/N)’s probably flirting with Peter over the balcony **right now**._ ”

“ _Shut your mouth. She’s… I just gotta write something better._ ”

_He did!_ You clap your hand to your mouth and cough as you realise you have a mouth full of suds – next door goes very quiet, suddenly, and then the door slams. You shove your hands back in the soapy water and the door opens; Micky smiles disarmingly at you, and you smile back.

“Hey. You… uh, seen Davy?” he asks, and you nod towards the window.

“He’s outside with Peter smoking,” you say quickly, and he nods.

“Cool. Bet you can hear ‘em, talking horseshit,” he laughs, and you catch on.

“Not a word. Sounds like sad tubas.” You grin. “Sounds like that anyway…” Mike emerges, and you hold your breath as he looks at you, a little. You look firmly at Micky, and smile. “Mike played me a song before.”

“…did he?” Micky attempts to feign ignorance. He just looks slightly constipated for the effort. “What was it?”

“Doesn’t have a name. But it was good. Really good. About a girl.” You turn away. “I bet if the girl heard it, she’d love it.” You hold your breath, and clear your throat, grabbing a plate from the sink. “She’d probably prefer it if you were blunt with her, though. And asked her out.”

There’s silence for a few moments.

“Mike, I-”

“Get out, Mick.”

You hear the door go, and you grab the dishcloth, turning back – you aren’t expecting Mike to be less than a foot away and you jump.

“Would that girl prefer it?” he asks, and you nod, teeth sunk into your lip. “Well. You’re a girl. You wanna tell me where this… girl would like to go on a date?” He steps forward and you look up into those eyes – how did you never spot the strands of amber in them?

“The cinema. Maybe… for food.” He nods, and reaches up, cupping your face – you spot the tremor in his hands as he hesitates for only a moment, and you smile. His fingers _are_ rough. “Something… small. But intimate.”

“She knows what she likes. Or rather… you do, ma’am,” he smiles, and then kisses you; your heart flutters, and you lift your hand to his where it cradles your jaw gently. Well, you muse. He definitely has another side to him… and you’re interested in seeing more.


End file.
